Le Hangover Francais
by homesickpirate
Summary: England, suffering from a hangover, wakes to find himself tied in none other than France's bed.


England found himself to be in quite a situation. A situation that, though he was loathe to admit it, he found himself in very often. This morning in particular, our stubborn Brit awoke decidedly hung over; with a pounding head and a throbbing arse no less. Then when he had tried to move his hands to stretch, he found something even more peculiar. His hands were tied above him to the bed. Not painfully; he wasn't in any particular discomfort, but still. They were tied. And in that moment of shock he had also opened his eyes. Unsurprisingly, he was blindfolded as well. Though he couldn't see, feel, or really think at the moment, it would be understandable if he was wondering what the hell was going on. But he wasn't. He knew what the hell was going on.

"France!" The shout echoed loudly through the airy Paris house, bouncing off the walls, and not procuring an answer. Or at least, a verbal answer.

Because through his headache, England swore he could almost hear something, like someone approaching him; softly, quietly. His imagined creation moved closer and closer. They were standing by the bed now, they were-

"ahhh!" Something- or rather someone, touched him.

So it wasn't his imagination after all.

And if it wasn't flying mint bunny, there was only one other person who would do this (because flying mint bunny was real damnit, and she played the best pranks) and the only other person who would possibly do this was France, which brought him back to his previous accusation.

And now that his brain had cleared a bit from the shock, and the hangover had lifted, he wasn't angry or indignant anymore. One could almost say that in this particular situation, our dear England was actually (really) scared.

"Don't worry, mon petit, I'll make sure you… enjoy it" The voice drawled out seductively near his ear.

Well that sure helped ease his mind.

"Just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" The angered Briton rose to the occasion, gnashing his teeth and snapping dangerously. But the bonds held, and the voice continued, amused.

""Just a little… game, you would say."

"Well I don't want your games!" He would have thought that would be obvious, as there was absolutely no reason for him to wake up willingly in France's bed unless he was stone drunk and tied up- which he was.

"It's very simple." France spoke lightly, as one would about the weather. England became angrier.

"Let. Me. Go. I swear I'll stick America on you and then you won't be so pretty will you?" He hoped the threat would work; he had no idea if America would actually care enough to beat up France or not, but at least he was a force to be reckoned with.

But France just laughed him off. "Oh please, mon cher. I have so much blackmail against America. There was that one time with me and him at that party, and mon dieux the amount of pictures I have of you two snogging-"

"Please stop. I really don't want to hear about this."

"- and that time all three of us did it."

"Okay, point taken. What's your little game; I want to go home"

"Speak French."

"What?"

England heard France sigh, as if in frustration. "You heard me. Speak French once. Then you can leave."

"Just once?" he asked, just to be quite sure. There must be a trap.

"Oui… just once."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" France cried out, exasperated. England was pleased to have upset the frog this early in the morning.

"I mean no. I will not speak French to you. Ever."

"You know French."

"That is beside the point."

Suddenly he felt a cool hand slip under his shirt, and he gasped. A sick feeling found its way into his stomach, as he realized that outright defiance while tied to a bed probably wasn't a good idea.

France's hand moved up, trailing across his smooth shuddering skin and hooking itself at the top of his shirt, ripping it off. England honestly had no words to say.

Then soft lips descended upon his skin with kisses and bites and long, sensuous licks making their way up his chest. At some point he screamed.

"Parle en Francais" The voice hissed, commanded against his shivering body.

He shook his head no, not trusting himself to speak.

Hot air blew at him in frustration, but France did not berate him. Just kept moving against his chest, rhythmic dancing of hand and tongue, creating a moaning masterpiece under him.

And then there was a problem. Because England, the innocent victim, was beginning to be aroused. He could feel it in the way his cheeks heated up, his breaths became labored- and the way his pants were beginning to feel very tight indeed. And he wanted them off.

"Francis" he growled, trying to grind his hips against the air.

"Quoi?" Innocent words fell from French lips, amusement kept tightly at bay.

"Take them off!" He commanded, wailing.

"En Francais."

"No!"

"Well I suppose I'll just leave you here…" hands and mouth withdrew from England's body. He moaned in frustration.

"Bloody Fuck me already, if you're going to."

"Mais… je ne comprends pas l'Anglais"

« You know English perfectly well you idiot- gahh ! » A large kiss was placed on his sternum, and many more soon followed; tiny breathy kisses that left him angry and needy and helpless.

"Fine you sick bastard!"

"Hmm…" Francis laughed, his rumbles vibrating against England's neck. Alright, that was it. He didn't care anymore, he was beyond reason.

"Aller, tu malveillant homme. Immédiatement, oh dieux ! Je te déteste. "

"As you wish, mon Angleterre."

And England didn't get untied for a very long time.


End file.
